Toby
by Logastella Krustallos
Summary: Toby, Molly's cat, just won't leave Sherlock Holmes alone. One-shot.


Hello my fellow Sherlockians. :)

I really liked the idea some people had of Sherlock staying over at Molly's for a while after _the fall_. And because I love Sherlolly, I was tempted to write some surrounding that idea. And this story is literally very fluffy. Kinda OOC. I'm sorry.

—

"Miaow."

…

"Miaow."

…

"Miaow."

…

"Mia—"

"_Shut. Up!_"

With a bang of the table and a yowl from the cat, the fuzzy white-and-brown creature scurried off into a corner of the flat, away from the black-coated monster. "Can't you see I'm thinking? Impertinent little…"

"Toby? Toby, are you alright?"

Sherlock paused for a split second before exasperatedly huffing and turning over on the coral pink sofa. He crossed his arms and pushed together his knees, mumbling and muttering on. In several seconds he felt a light, gentle presence enter the room that belonged to none other than Molly. Surely, Molly must understand. Surely she must realize that her cat was interrupting something important.

"You scared Toby."

Sherlock didn't move.

"He's only a harmless cat, you know…"

Sherlock didn't breathe.

"He only…wanted your attention, Sherlock."

Sherlock twisted around to stare at Molly standing a few feet away from him, dressed in a lavender lace tank top and shorts. Her hair was combed, her nails just filed and refined. _Appeal attempt_, he observed. He knew it was all for him, that was obvious. It had always been, and it continued since he had moved in.

"Yes, well, I have no time to give attention to your '_Toby_'. I'm in the middle of working. Can't your noisy pet get attention from you instead?" Sherlock suggested hastily, his eyes showing not even one glimmer of mercy.

Molly had catered to Sherlock, had been giving, had been attentive, had lied to the world. And worse, she had been quiet. Much too quiet. Normally she would agree and back off, but after dealing with this sort of behavior for two weeks, she merely said, "N-No."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I mean, technically, yes, but —" Molly stammered, bit her lip._ Oh, come on._ "Don't you think…" she began, and suddenly felt an idea coming on. An amusing kind of idea. Her eyes brightened and out came, "Don't you think Toby gets, I don't know, bored too?"

"He's just a feline. All that he requires to function are meals, sleep, shelter. He has no mind to be concerned about anything else." Sherlock stated, keeping his gaze on Molly as he tapped his fingers together. He was hoping he would get some more time to think today, but it looked like that wasn't going to happen. He needed a plan of action, he needed —

"N-Not true. Are you saying you've never had a cat before?" Molly asked, a smirk playing at her lips. For once, Sherlock's cool stare wasn't making her freeze — in fact, it urged her on. She knew he really wasn't, and that all he wanted was time to himself; although now…she just felt like doing what _she_ wanted. "They do need something to play with, like a toy mouse, or a bell ball, a string of yarn…"

Sherlock's face scrunched slightly and he inquired quite incredulously, "What could possibly be amusing about a string of yarn?" He crossed his arms and turned his nose up at the ceiling. Expecting no answer, he fell silent for a few moments. He heard nothing. Unsurprised, he looked at Molly again — wait, Molly?

She was gone.

Sherlock's eyes scattered around the room. Molly was quick. Shrugging, he took the opportunity and placed his hands against each other and to his chin. Images of Moriarty on the roof flashed through his mind, and the gun, and the snipers….potentials. He had already figured out that —

"Miaow."

Sharply, Sherlock sat up and groaned, his blood boiling. He faced the pest, and saw its round eyes shimmering. Then Sherlock noticed a delicate hand dangling a blue yarn string, and realized Molly was crouched near the cat. "See?" She simpered as Toby started jumping after the string. Toby clawed at it, tried to trap it between its paws, and mewled in frustration every now and then. Molly giggled, seeming to genuinely enjoy this.

Sherlock blinked.

"Here, now you try it," Molly said, extending her hand towards Sherlock. Not wanting to be rude, Sherlock decided to not shout and replied, "No. I already told you, I'm working." Molly's inviting and gentle smile dropped and she felt her confidence crumble. It was silly of her, anyway. It was Sherlock Holmes she was talking to after all.

A twinge of unexpected guilt ran through Sherlock. For some reason he didn't mind exploiting her affection for him to get his way but all of a sudden he had a problem with this? First the gift at Christmas, and now over a bloody cat and string. Perhaps it was necessary to explain further. "Look, Molly, you must understand. Making certain I develop a plan for what Moriarty has left behind might very well save London. Engaging in a game with a cat won't help me." Sherlock elucidated, his voice firm but gentle.

Molly held back a chuckle; watching Sherlock trying to be nice was definitely more cute than watching Toby struggle. She then mentally hit herself for contradicting her blog entry. Whatever, all she knew was that she had to keep going. "But Sherlock, m-maybe a short break would be good for you." Molly suggested, tilting her head.

Sherlock stared at Molly. "No, no, I'm pretty sure that wouldn't help me."

Molly stared at Sherlock. "I'll play with Toby elsewhere if you do it just this once?"

Sherlock swayed the string back and forth over Toby's head. Toby sat there, motionless, just letting the string graze his nose again and again. And again. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed and he muttered, "He's not doing anything. Why isn't he doing anything? A minute ago he was going hell for leather with this." Molly broke out in a fit of giggles and Sherlock glanced up at her, watching as she placed a hand over her mouth. He then realized he rarely heard Molly laugh. It was nice.

He looked back at Toby, who abruptly sprang up and caught the string and snatched it out of his fingers. Sherlock's eyes widened and he observed as Toby triumphantly ran off, the string hanging from his teeth. "Aww. See, that wasn't too bad, was it?" Molly chimed in, feeling better herself.

"No, I suppose it wasn't." Sherlock admitted, setting aside the fact that he had been trumped by a cat and was sitting like a child on the floor. Molly began smiling at his answer, her eyes crinkling and her shoulders rolling subtly. Sherlock felt her exuding warmth and found himself absorbing it, wondering why and how any of this could be pleasant. Because it sort of was.

Molly began fiddling with her fingers, her nervousness returning, because Sherlock hadn't really done anything but just sit there and stare at her. "Well, I'll leave you alone now." She murmured, getting up and rubbing her wrist.

"Oh. Right. Fine, good." Sherlock said, getting up himself, and dusting off his clothes. Molly flashed another small smile and bowed her head slightly, turning away and walking after Toby. Sherlock watched her leave and returned to the sofa to resume his thinking.

Molly grabbed Toby and picked him up, stroking his back as she stood in the kitchen. She _did _something today. She actually convinced the cold and calculating Sherlock Holmes to play with a cat, even if it was a mere minute. It wasn't a life-saving, world-changing miracle, but it was still a miracle in her head. And then she felt glad for pushing herself again. She needed to do that more often, she decided. It's what got Sherlock here in the first place.

And perhaps it was what Sherlock needed, too, for a sudden, glorious shout of "I've got it!" rang through the flat.


End file.
